


Why I Hate Afghanistan

by Deannie



Series: The Losers' Tour Book [1]
Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Community: hc_bingo, M/M, pre-movie and or comic book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2164290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay’s going to shoot somebody in the head if we don’t wrap up this mission soon. Since everyone’s waiting on my expertise to find out where the main weapons depot is, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be me. Hence my side mission of staying out of his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I Hate Afghanistan

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before the events of the comic book (or the movie if you're going for movieverse). To fulfill the hc-bingo prompt: low blood sugar and the fic_promptly prompt: "The Losers - any - summer heat is his least favourite weather"

Okay… It is about 900 degrees in here and I am _still_ not in. I’m going to cook to death before any of these puppies fetch what I’m looking for. Emil al-Harmashna is a slick son of a bitch and his weapons cache is pretty much untraceable. By anyone who isn’t _me_.

But to do that tracing, I have to work in this overgrown tin box in the middle of the desert.

I fucking hate Afghanistan.

You know what? I hate summer. Summer is definitely my least favorite season.

Fall is just fall no matter where you go. Hot one day, cold the next. Except when you’re in Central America, and then it’s just like summer, isn’t it? All the time. One of the many problems I have with Central America.

But sometimes there’s amazing colors—in the fall, I mean. Leaves in New England, unbelievable sunsets in Siberia—kind of makes up for the unpredictability. Though it never really made up for that one time north of Murmansk when Clay took a round in the chest and the winds stopped the retrieval team from getting to us and we had to hike out to fucking Finland on Halloween, but usually… yeah.

Ah! _Finally!_ I feel like I’ve been chasing my tail all day. About time I had a bite. Come to papa, you worthless two bit… Sorry, sorry! Good puppy… Okay, good job. Bank accounts are good. Money for arms for money….

The sweat rolling into my eyes is making the screen go jiggy. Come on—nobody thought of air conditioning? I mean, okay, last ditch bunker in the middle of nowhere, but you thought to install a generator, you couldn’t’ve added a damn fan? Better than roasting to death.

All right, off you go. Go find another yummy bone, puppy...

Of course, winter sucks—well, _real_ winter sucks. Northern winters that’re, like, 20 degrees below zero and blizzard conditions and frozen asses. They suck.

Actually, southern winters suck, too, because they’re completely frigid and windy, snow or no snow. Okay, so I’m generalizing, because really, we’ve only ever been sent to Argentina. But in winter, Patagonia sucks. Like when Cougs was trying to bleed out after our transport crashed because of the damn winds. That was totally not Pooch’s fault, by the way, no matter what he thinks.

Yeah, winters blow, but there’s conserving body heat, right? Snuggling for survival? Cougar’s suspiciously large sleeping bag makes winter weather totally worth it, most of the time.

Hell, I’d settle for the two of us lying on the ground under the camo net that’s keeping Pooch’s hunk of junk hidden. Not going to happen tonight, of course—just hiking to and from al-Harmashna’s compound for standard recon is going to take him until tomorrow morning. This is the one day the guy’s out of his lair for a while though, according to Roque. Man, I’m glad he’s under with old Emil and not me. That dude is creepy. And so’s Emil.

And who the hell does al-Harmashna’s security work? It’s, like, CIA strong! Luckily, I hacked the CIA when I was fifteen. I know all the tricks.

Ciphers like this give me a headache, though. I need some aspirin. And water. And—oh my God, you did _not_ just try to firebomb my puppy!

I’m bringing out the big dogs now, you piece of shit security web. You’re pathetic….

Anyway, Spring is rainy. Kind of everywhere. Except that one April in Sudan when I nearly died of dehydration waiting for extraction with a bullet in my leg. Didn’t rain once the whole eight days. Or, the parts of the eight days I remember, anyway.

Great. Now I’m thirsty again just thinking about. Okay, water, aspirin, maybe another MRE—sure as hell not the burrito special, though. Still burping that one up— _HA!_ I’m in, you little bastard. See how you like _this_!

Where was I…? Oh! Summer? The worst. Never seems to be anything but hot and sticky, no matter where we go. And Cougar never wants to spoon up at night, even when we have a good place to sleep, because it’s all just sweaty and slick—and totally not in a fun way.

Like today. 108 degrees and 90% humidity. The nights aren’t any better. At least in here.

I mean seriously, who can live like this? Why would they want to? Clay’s usual paranoia aside, weather like this is totally the reason the Middle East is so messed up. And Afghanistan—have I mentioned how much I hate Afghanistan? They’d all be less shoot-everyone-kill-kill if they moved to… Vermont. Or, like, Germany… Weather like this makes people pissy.

Like Clay. Clay’s going to shoot somebody in the head if we don’t wrap up this mission soon. Since everyone’s waiting on my expertise to find out where the main weapons depot is, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be me. Hence my side mission of staying out of his way.

Of course, this frickin’ bunker is like 1200 degrees and seats one-and-a-half, so he’s not interested in coming in. It’s also the only place in a hundred miles with a power hookup and a satellite feed—short of al-Harmashna’s place, which I’m _sure_ has air conditioning—and since Cougar _broke_ my portable solar panel in that firefight in Bangladesh, I’m stuck in here. I’m just glad I work best in my underwear.

At least I’m not sweating anymore, which is _still_ not going to get me any sex tonight. Stupid recon. I just want to find out where al-Harmashna is keeping the damn weapons so I can get out of here, blow some shit up, and get back to someplace cool.

Like Death Valley.

”Jake?”

Cougar. Huh. I’m still mad at him for last night.

“Seriously, would it have killed you to put out just a little?” I ask, not bothering to look up from the computer. Crap. The screen can’t be going in this one already, can it? Alignment’s shifted all to hell—like I’m looking through 3-D glasses.

Luckily, I love 3-D glasses.

”Jake?”

“ _Cat Women of the Moon_. Now there was a 3-D film. Breasts just heaving right off the screen at you…”

” _Mierda._ ” Dude, language! “Colonel?”

Oh, _mierda._ Clay totally didn’t need to hear that crack about Cougar not putting out. Or about _Cat Women of the Moon._ Although given his taste in women...

So, the third rocket launcher shipment went south to Liberia, and the money went where?

“He’s burning up.”

Because it’s 900 degrees in here. I already covered that. Get you hand off me.

”Hasn’t anyone been checking on him?” Clay’s pissed. Still. Well crap. So much for staying out of his way.

“I’m totally getting shot today, aren’t I?” Got it! The money went through Oslo. “Damn, I bet Oslo is perfect this time of year.”

”Don’t look at me, man. I been nursing that Jeep all day. Didn’t even know he was still in here.”

I could totally buy you a new Jeep—just siphon off some of al-Harmashna’s money. When I find it. One of my puppies comes back home with a bone in his mouth. “Dude, he routed it through Vegas? Bold move.”

”Recon,” Coug says, out of the blue. What the hell does that mean? He’s not supposed to go out on recon until tonight. “Just got back.”

”Great, between your recon and Pooch’s car trouble, we’ve got a burned out husk for a techie.”

”Well, where were you?”

Shit. Did I say that out loud?

”Making sure we have enough firepower to blow that depot to hell. If you live long enough to find it for us. Now get your ass out of that chair.”

Yep. Going to get shot.

”Can I finish following Hari Krishna’s money before you shoot me?” Hari Krishna’s? “I meant al-Harmashna’s. I did.” This is the last link in the chain, I know it. Just one… more…

”Jensen, I’m only going to shoot you if you don’t get your ass out of this bunker and into the fucking Jeep—which better have working air conditioning.”

I finally get the message and send out the last puppy before I turn away from the computer screen. Clay’s fuzzy—am I still wearing 3-D glasses?—but he has that look in his eyes, directed at Pooch. Maybe he’ll shoot Pooch instead of me.

”Air conditioning is working fine, Clay,” Pooch assures him, looking me up and down. He looks... I don’t know. He has a weird look in his eyes. My shorts are clean, right?

”Jake? _Mi loco? Vamonos._ ” Cougar takes my arm over his shoulder (also a bold move) and I look down at him. He has this, like, _Star Trek_ alien babe filter about him. Hazy and sexy. But still…

”You know, we have to talk about you calling me your crazy one. It’s demeaning.”

”But accurate.” Says the man who starts to sweat if there isn’t a bobble head Chihuahua on his dashboard.

”Yeah, bite me, Pooch.” I giggle at that. Okay, maybe I’m a _little_ loco. “Get it? Bite me? Cause your name is Pooch…?” Maybe I should have sent Pooch in to get the information. That’s one big, grumpy dog.

”J., please Jesus, just get in the damn Jeep and cool down.” He pretty much throws me inside and I’m suddenly 150 degrees cooler. Cougar slides in next to me. “Glad Roque ain’t here to see this. He’d kick your ass to Pakistan.”

”Here’s a few bottles of water, Cougar,” Clay says, glaring at me, still pissed. Always pissed in this weather. Hell, always pissed in Afghanistan.

”Like the Taliban or something.” Nah. Even pissed, he’s not as bad as them. Much worse when he wants to be.

Clay grunts that grunt he gets when one of us does something we should have known better not to do. Ow. That hurt to think. ”When’d you last eat, soldier?” he asks me, that look in his eyes that says he really is trying to work hard not to shoot me. I have to appreciate the effort.

But seriously? How short is his memory? “Lunch. Bad Mexican MRE? You were there.”

”God damn geeks,” he mutters, turning away. Now I’m offended. “Pooch, get him a couple of candy bars.”

Cougar’s looking at me all concerned. But sort of… upset. Disappointed, maybe? Or just... I have no idea what I did wrong here. My head is killing me.

”I should set God damned alarms for you when you get like this,” Clay mumbles. “Shut out the whole damn world…” All right, that’s enough.

”Shit, Clay, you have any idea how much work it is to get through those damn encryptions? I’m the one who’s got to figure out where the hell the ordinance is, right? So I forgot to drink something. Shoot me.” Oh crap. “You know I totally didn’t mean that, right?”

He grins tightly. Shit, seriously—I totally didn’t mean that!

”I have a meet and greet with the local militia leaders in an hour—”

An hour? “I thought that meeting was tomorrow afternoon.”

Clay and Cougar exchange one of those crime drama Moments of Revelation. ”It _is_ tomorrow, Jake,” Cougar says. (There should really be a musical sting after that.)

”Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?” God, I’ve missed at least dinner and breakfast. And sleep! And that mother fucking security system is _still_ not cracked. I’m slipping.

“Is it me, or is it freezing in here?”

”Keep the AC up, Cougar. You know the drill: water and sugar ‘til he’s better.” Better? I’m not sick now. Will be if they keep me on ice like this, though. “Pooch and I’ll head out in the car—“

”The snot box.” It really does look like snot. Old beat up snot-yellow Mercedes two-door that’s been in the desert too long. Runs better than the jeep, though.

”Shut up, Jensen,” Clay barks. I shut up. Still not interested in getting shot. And I still don’t know what the hell is my fault in this. I’m paid (badly) to crack shit. I was cracking shit. Time just sort of… got away from me.

”Drink this.” Cougar puts a bottle of water to my lips and I drink a little and choke on the rest. When did I close my eyes?

”It’s really freezing in here, Cougar.”

His hand is on my forehead and I lean into it. Dude, suddenly, I’m feeling like shit.

”It’ll warm up in a few minutes.”

”Stupid move, J.” I open my eyes to see Pooch leaning in the window. Clay’s magically disappeared. “Just take it easy, huh? We’ll be back soon.” He and Cougs exchange a soap opera Concerned Farewell look and he walks away as Cougar rolls up the window.

”I feel like crap,” I say. Yeah. Pretty much all I can get out. “Dizzy.” Can’t say another word. “Tired. Did I mention I’m fucking freezing?” I look up at him—when’d I end up cuddled against him? Uh oh, what is that he has in his hand? “And I think if you try to shove that candy bar down my throat, I’ll slit yours with the wrapper.” I close my eyes again, swallowing against the smell of chocolate and sugar. I could totally do it, too. And he knows it.

”You know the drill,” he says quietly. What drill? “Too hot and no food. Water and sugar.” The smell of that damn candy bar is totally going to make me yawn in Technicolor, as they say.

”Who are _they_?” I’ve always wondered that.

Cougar tries to stuff a piece of chocolate in my mouth, but I reach for the water instead. That shouldn’t make me hurl.

”What?”

I take a sip and stare at him. “What ‘what’?”

”You asked ‘who are _they_?”

I did?

Let’s see… tired, freezing, kill you with a Snickers wrapper, Technicolor— “Oh yeah. _They_.” I dodge the candy bar again. “You know how you’re always saying something and you add ‘as they say’ to the end?”

He just stares at me with a piece of candy bar melting in his hand. How can it melt? It’s 90 below in here.

”Okay, okay. You know how _I’m_ always saying something and adding ‘as they say’ to the end? What does that even mean? Who are _they_?”

Cougar takes a deep breath, holds half of it in for a five count like he’s pulling the trigger, then looks at me seriously. “If you eat this candy bar, I’ll tell you.”

Shit. He _knows_!?

I snatch the gooey gunk from his hand, stuff it in my mouth, and suck the melted bits off his fingers.

”Give.” I can’t believe I’m finally going to find out who _they_ are!

But of course, there’s a catch. Because my lover is a sneaky-ass bastard. Especially when he thinks there’s something wrong with me. Which there totally isn’t.

”The whole bar.”

”Cougar, I’m gonna throw up if I do that.” I don’t sound five. Really. Six years old at least. “I’m going to throw up _on you_.”

But he’s implacable. Such a great word, and yet only 18 points on a Scrabble board—and that’s only if your opponent is stupid enough to leave a random _able_ lying around. I suppose if he left you _imp_ , and you used up all your letters with _-lacable_ , you’d end up with 68, which’d rock—

”Eat, Jake.” Cougar stares at me. He looks concerned and he sounds sad. So I eat.

”What were we talking about?” I’m starting to feel a little better. I’m guessing he must have turned the heat on finally, because I’m only shivering a little bit now.

” _They_.”

I’m not going to puke. I’m not going to puke. Why the fuck did I let him talk me into eating that candy bar!?

” _Them,_ you mean.”

He shakes his head and wisely doesn’t try to force the last bite of the thing down my throat. “ _They._ As they say.”

”Since when did you start saying ‘as they say’? And who the hell are _they_ , anyway.” Not going to puke.

”I feel like shit.”

”You should sleep.”

Sleep? I look out the grimy windows and see the sun beating down outside the camo tent we have over the Jeep. “Sleep in the Jeep?”

Heh. My niece loved that book. _Sheep_ in a Jeep. On a hill that’s steep. That’s so appropriate I can’t help but chuckle. “Uh oh. The jeep won’t go!”

”Be quiet,” Cougar says sharply. “Drink.”

I drink. I’m really thirsty, now I think about it.

My head hurts, too. It hurts kind of like it did back in Sudan…

Shit. Are you kidding me?

And this time I can’t even blame a bullet. Just my own tunnel vision. And al-Harmashna’s wicked-ass security protocols.

And Afghanistan.

”Give me the water.” I hate feeling like this. “Stupid.”

Cougar hands me a bottle and I drain half of it, fighting not to puke. He smiles at me, agreeing with me. Stupid move, Jake.

”Shut up,” I gripe, closing my eyes against the urge to hurl.

He cuddles me into his side. I can feel the rumble of the fucked up engine all around us, trying to lull me to sleep.

“Seriously,” I tell him, as he looks at me. “Shut up.”

I feel him kiss my head as I burrow into his chest.

”I fucking hate Afghanistan.”

* * * *  
The End


End file.
